


coextensive space

by kyrilu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the mountains, there are hunters who use eagles to help them catch foxes,” Brown says, the metal restraints on his wrists rattling, rattling. “If an eagle failed, the hunter would let it go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	coextensive space

He doesn’t know what to expect when he enters the privacy room. He’s at the wrong side of the table - at least, it feels that way, and Matthew Brown’s hands are chained on the table’s surface. Brown is wearing a pair of crisp coveralls, that same dusty blue that Will is used to, and he looks at Will with something undefinable in his eyes. An emotion that seems too complicated and knotted for Will to sort out, for the moment.

If he would to untangle the strands, he’d find contempt, and anger, and anguish, and desperation, and still, buried underneath it all, a desire to please and to serve.

“In the mountains, there are hunters who use eagles to help them catch foxes,” Brown says, the metal restraints on his wrists rattling, rattling. “If an eagle failed, the hunter would let it go.” He laughs, softly, and says, “Is this letting me go, Mr. Graham?”

Will doesn’t sit down in the chair. He doesn’t want to lower himself down to eye contact, and just looks past a point in the wall beyond Brown’s head, a blank and careful stare. He says, “Hunting was a -- belated move. I’ve decided that fishing was more my trade.”

“But you hunted, anyway,” Brown says. He is trying to make Will _look_ at him, his head at an angle, and his voice low and persuasive. “You shouldn’t give it up right away. The training process of eagles, though - it’s tough, y’know. They’re blindfolded and they’re made to be dependent on their hunters. It’s important they develop a killer instinct. Are you giving this all up for nothing?”

Will blinks. This is a mistake, and here, here, unintentional eye contact is made. “I didn’t train you."

“My loyalty,” Brown says, and the chains jingle on his hands again. “You got it. Still do, even. Did you know what I told the FBI? The man who shot me? I told him you didn’t tell me to do anything. I jumped to conclusions all on my own. And so you’re free.” His gaze strays to a place near his stomach. “It was for you. I put Hannibal Lecter on the cross like Christ, but it was me bleeding my guts out as if I’d been stuck by the Lance of Longinus.”

Will is just…tired. Brown’s knot – the hurt and the blame and the devotion like a flame – pulls him under. It feels like he’s watching a flood threaten to lap at his feet again. He doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes in exhaustion until he feels Brown put his hand there, briefly, lightly, coaxing them open with a fluttering touch.

With a smirk, Brown says, “With all my experience, do you really think I wouldn’t be able to get out of a pair of handcuffs?”

Will does not call for help. Will is frozen, and feels his breath catch when Brown’s hand shifts to the front of Will’s pants, tugging at his belt. _This is what he wants_ , Will thinks, and it’s almost funny, for some reason. He finds his voice and says, his throat dry, “No.”

“I’ve always wanted to,” Brown says, with a low rasp in his tone. “It could be very easy. Did you know,” he says, “an investigator once tried to ask a strangler about a crime of his, while the man was imprisoned. And sometime during the process, the strangler easily put the investigator into position - just a demonstration, you see - and he got the right point. His carotid arteries. Made him choke.”

“You don’t want to kill me,” Will says. Will is empathizing again – eye contact – and he knows that Brown is projecting onto him. Catching him into himself so that Will will reflect that _desire_ back at him. Will Graham does not work that way. He doesn’t—

But Brown’s fingers make slow circles on his still-clad thigh. But Brown’s fingers steal under his shirt to touch the gunshot wound that Jack Crawford had left in him. But Brown is hunger itself, his tongue running over the bottom of his lip like he’s concentrating, thinking, and Will can feel him inside the very core of his being.

“I saw you,” Brown says, slowly, touching Will’s thighs again. “I saw you in the showers, sweaty from a nightmare, with your coveralls left on the floor. You looked how you did a second ago. With your eyes shut and vulnerable and sad, and I would’ve held you against the tiles and fucked you until you forgot. _Anything_ , Mr. Graham. Anything. I would’ve done this,” and he cups Will’s crotch, his hand warm, across and under, over and around, and Will is dizzy, fading, feels Brown slip his pants to the ground. Slip his hand into Will’s boxers.

Will shudders, can’t help leaning into the rhythmic fingers. He spasms, shivers. He can feel the sweat on his thighs, and then feels Matthew smear precome across his skin with a thumb. Will says, “Matthew – _look at me,_ stop, you don’t want—“

His words are cut off by a choked sigh, triggered by a stroke of Matthew’s wrist.

“You know entirely well that I want this,” Matthew says, drawing out another sigh from Will, gently. “I feel so damned _good_ , don’t I? So good. Poor lonely Mr. Graham, tricked and victimized by his monster of a therapist. Lights up, but doesn’t really notice it, when his orderly sneaks skin contact with him in prison. When his orderly _kills_ for him. So good,” he murmurs again.

Matthew’s erection is pressing against Will’s back, his boxers, heat pooling against him. Matthew’s hips jerk, and Will lets out a half-stifled moan. Matthew’s fingers are working at him like he’s a thing to be undone; he’s hard and Matthew is meticulous, encompassing—

“Forgive me,” Matthew whispers, and brings a semen-stained hand to hold Will’s hand, and Will comes.

Will stands there, nearly entirely naked. He doesn’t move when Matthew finishes himself off, his eyes on Will’s body as he tugs almost carelessly on his own erection through his coveralls, rough and hurried, letting out an obscene moan when he’s done. ( _W-Will_ , he stutters, a gasp, and Will will never forget that sound, the way that Matthew says his name.) 

As if Will is too broken to function, Matthew eases Will’s pants back up. His belt. Will lets Matthew dress him, and tries not to remember the times that his former orderly had buckled and chained and tightened his restraints, too impossibly tender. 

Will says, quietly, “Forgive me.” He knows that he has partially shaped Matthew for what, for who, he is. He is an icon of veneration, and Matthew wants and wants so he _takes_ , but it doesn’t matter: he failed. 

Matthew just smiles, sits, snaps his handcuffs back on, and says, “Time to let the eagle go.” 

He kisses Will. Will allows Matthew to lead, just for that moment, and drags out the kiss a little bit longer until it ends.


End file.
